


Keep the Earth Below My Feet

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“---- okay?” Sid asks, leaning up against the boards, hovering without any actual physical proximity. Zhenya grimaces to himself; like everyone else, Sid speaks too fast and uses too many words. Worst of all, he wants Zhenya to understand, always waits earnestly for an answer that doesn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep the Earth Below My Feet

It’s been a few weeks since Zhenya made it to America, and he’s slumped on a bench during preseason camp, watching blankly as Sid breaks away from faceoff drills to push determinedly in his direction.

 

“---- okay?” Sid asks, leaning up against the boards, hovering without any actual physical proximity. Zhenya grimaces to himself; like everyone else, Sid speaks too fast and uses too many words. Worst of all, he wants Zhenya to understand, always waits earnestly for an answer that doesn’t exist.

 

“Okay,” he says, hoping he guesses right about the question. “Mama, Papa, Magnitogorsk…” he digs around in his head for the sound he needs. “Miss?” Zhenya thinks of a puck going towards the net, flying past twine and bouncing ineffectively off the boards. Or, worse, the harsh deceleration and ping of eating post.

 

“Oh, you’re homesick, huh?” Sid says, and Zhenya waits for clarity to strike. It doesn’t.

 

“Homesick,” he mimics, the word heavy in his mouth, and he shrugs at Sid. Sid smiles, nodding and pleased, before dropping a glove on Zhenya’s helmet and then skating away. He and Duper shout about something, a loud, quick back-and-forth with wide gestures, before Sid dissolves into helpless laughter. Zhenya can’t help but feel like the butt of the joke.

 

Zhenya hates every inch of this fucking country. He hates the sound of English, the smell of American food, the look of buildings. He hates the roads and every person who drives on them. He especially hates the supermarkets, full of too many brightly colored boxes and freezer aisles and indecipherable labels. (He put something in his glass yesterday that wasn’t the milk he was expecting, but he was too proud to ask Ksenia what she was smiling about.)

 

He hates himself, for coming here, for thinking that he could fit into a team like the Penguins. His mouth is bitter with all the words nobody understands, even on the ice, where everything should make sense.

 

That night Zhenya lies in bed on his side so he can curl around the ache in his chest. His eyes burn, and he twists to shove his face into the pillow until the air is too hot to breathe. Zhenya picks his head up, gasping, and reminds himself, _It’s not forever, it’s only temporary. They’ll let you go back. It’ll end, someday._

 

Zhenya mentally divides the time left into smaller and smaller pieces, until it feels less enormous. _Only five months until January, that’s halfway through the regular season_ , and then on the heels of that, _Oh, God, five whole months and then that many more again, how many weeks is that, how many days like today, it’s too many_ , and he gives it up as a lost cause.

 

His eyes burn, and there’s an ache in his chest. Zhenya puts his face back into the pillow, feeling the world close in around him. _It’s only temporary_.

 

\--

 

They’re out to lunch the day before the first preseason game when Sid drops into the seat next to Zhenya.

 

“What the hell does he want,” Zhenya mutters to Seryozha, rudely turning away from Sid. Seryozha’s mouth pinches, and Zhenya slumps into his chair sullenly, feeling childish but unmotivated to change his behavior. The thought of trying to pick words out from the endless cycle of conversation around the table leaves him aching.

 

“Do you really have the luxury of turning down a friend right now?” says Seryozha mildly, reaching for the bread basket and stealing it out from under Jordy and Letang’s slapfight, much to their vocal displeasure.

 

An elbow digs into Zhenya’s side, and he turns to Sid, offering a tight smile that he feels become more honest at Sid’s hopeful expression.

 

“Привет,” Sid says, lips carefully forming around the syllables, and Zhenya’s heart stutters as Sid glances up, giggling self-consciously and a little pink. “Sorry, ----?”

 

Zhenya cuts him off with an elbowing of his own. “Привет, Sid,” he says, and Sid jostles him back with his shoulder, laughing a little again and watching Zhenya out of the corners of his eyes; Zhenya takes the high road and doesn’t escalate it into a full-on shoving match. It has absolutely nothing to do with the way Sid left his shoulder resting against Zhenya’s upper arm, a little connection, broken only when their food comes and Sid has to snatch his plate before Army intercepts it. They cackle back and forth at each other and Zhenya watches with a little grin, unable to resist the upbeat mood in the face of the preseason.

 

It’s the first time in weeks that Zhenya felt like a part of what was going on around him.

 

\--

 

Two days later, Zhenya is cursing optimism, and English, and preseason games, and really anything that’ll stand still long enough to let him yell at it. His shoulder is on fire and he’s got at least a couple of weeks before seeing ice again.

 

“Don’t drown yourself in the tub while I’m at practice,” Seryozha says, and Zhenya flips him the bird from his fortress of artfully arranged pillows on the couch. “I realize you’re only twenty and so that probably still seems like an appropriate reaction, but I promise it isn’t.”

 

“Fuck off, you ancient fuck,” Zhenya snarls, drawing his legs up to hunch into himself more, immediately hissing and uncurling when it jars his shoulder. “I hope somebody runs into you and you get benched with a strained ass.”

 

Seryozha tuts. “Well, that’s uncreative. Get your shit together while I’m out, it stinks like your self-pity in here already.” There’s the jingle of keys and then the definitive snap of the front door. Zhenya makes an ugly face to himself, mouthing back Seryozha’s parting shot in disbelief.

 

“Asshole, what does he know,” Zhenya says to the empty room, but it’s halfhearted at best. The sick dread of the first few weeks, only recently beginning to subsist, has crawled back into his stomach and up his throat, and he huddles around it the best he can. A wave of shame breaks over his head next; how ungrateful is he, to be so rude to Seryozha when his family opened their home to him. His mother would be so disappointed-- _oh god, his mother, it’s been so long_ \--

 

Zhenya stares moodily at the central shot of the array of wedding pictures on the wall, showing Seryozha and Ksenia laughing, faces close together. There’s no point in turning on the TV; the silence is cloying but the endless tide of English would be worse. “Why did I even bother coming here?” he asks the picture, but it remains stubbornly mute.

 

He waits for an answer, and waits, and waits. With every second that’s thunked out by the clock hung above the mantle, Zhenya thinks, _I’m one second closer to going home._

 

(Eventually, Ksenia and Natalie return from grocery shopping. Zhenya helps them unload the groceries, for a given value of help. As he trails after Natalie, she teaches him the words “soy milk,” points to them on the side of the carton in her hands before stretching up to place it on a shelf in the refrigerator. Zhenya burns the odd shape of the letters into his mind, vows to avoid them forever after.)

 

\--

 

Zhenya fully expects the rest of his recovery period to follow the same dull shape as the first day. A week in he’s sorted out a routine focused around the family laptop and Seryozha’s stash of Russian-language DVDs. He’s well settled in for another long day of letting the sound of home wash back over him when the front door opens, an unusual exuberant wave of noise following.

 

“Seryozha?” he calls uncertainly, pausing the DVD and moving the laptop off to the side. “Is that you?”

 

“No, it’s some other poor fucker who’s surrounded by socially inept hockey-playing children,” Seryozha says long-sufferingly, coming into the living room through the kitchen so Zhenya can see him approaching.

 

“Bad day at practice?” Zhenya asks, or tries to. He’s interrupted by Army throwing himself over the back of the couch and down on the cushion next to him and jostling his good arm. “Hi, Geno!”

 

“Hi, Army,” Zhenya says, drawing away from Army--his shoulder only just stopped aching constantly, and he’s not interested in letting that change. There’s a clatter in the kitchen, and Zhenya turns back to Seryozha. “Who else is here?”

 

“Who do you think?” Seryozha asks cryptically, passing through the living room to head towards the den. “I’m going to go be busy somewhere else, don’t call me if you need me.”

 

“Seryozha, no, wait,” Zhenya calls desperately, but it’s too late. The noise in the kitchen has stopped, and Zhenya turns to look just as Sid appears in the doorway to grouchily say something, looking at Army. Army sighs, exaggerated, and heaves himself up. Sid disappears back into the kitchen, and Zhenya wonders if he was ordered up as well.

 

Just as he’s summoned enough energy to start the awkward shuffle involved in getting up painlessly, Sid reappears, carrying two plates of food, with two water bottles tucked under an arm. “No, ----,” Sid says, face creasing up, and Zhenya relaxes back into the sofa.

 

Sid kneels to put the plates on the coffee table so he can extract the water bottles and whisk silverware out of his hoodie pocket. Zhenya looks at the plates; they’re identical in content, some kind of sauce-covered chicken and squash on the side, but on one plate the food is already cut in careful, bite-size pieces. Sid cracks the seal on one of the water bottles and then tightens the top just enough to prevent leaking before tucking it in the gap between cushions next to Zhenya’s good arm. The plate of pre-cut food goes onto a tea towel, also magicked from the hoodie pocket--Zhenya wonders, a little crazily, what else is in there--and then onto Zhenya’s lap, along with a fork.

 

Sid settles next to Zhenya on the couch, close enough for their arms to brush, as Army comes back from the kitchen, clearly bitching by the tone of his voice. Sid answers, a little sharply, and Army huffs and collapses onto the recliner, his own plate in hand. It looks, well, messy compared to the plates Sid brought out, sauce dribbled all around, squash piled haphazardly all around the rim.

 

Sid gently nudges Zhenya in the side, waiting for him to look before gesturing at the TV and then miming clicking a remote. Zhenya digs up the remote and passes it over before turning his attention back to the food. It smells amazing, and for the first time in days, he’s actually interested in eating. Sid is clicking through a myriad of baffling looking menus before making a victorious sound and selecting an option. When he starts the movie playing again, there’s English captions at the bottom.

 

They watch the movie mostly in silence, Sid and Army occasionally exchanging a few words before falling quiet again. Zhenya feels--he doesn’t know how he feels, but he’s eaten a full meal that didn’t turn to ash in his mouth, and he’s content to slump into the couch and accept the occasional accidental elbow to the ribs as Sid cuts his food.

 

When Sid finishes eating, he stands, collecting up Zhenya’s dishes and pulling the water bottle out of the couch. There’s still some water left, and Sid removes the cap and hands the bottle to Zhenya. He obediently drains it, earning a wide smile and a nod from Sid, who takes it back and bustles off to the kitchen. Army shouts indignantly after him, gesturing at his plate, and earns a short answer back from Sid, of which Zhenya recognizes “fuck off, Army,” but nothing else.

 

Army stands, taking his dishes into the kitchen, and there’s a lull in the movie, enough that Zhenya can hear a quiet conversation between Army and Sid. He strains to listen in, but nothing is sounding familiar at all. They don’t sound angry, maybe, but Army seems questioning, and Zhenya desperately hopes the questions aren’t about him. There’s a brief pause and then a loud squeal before Sid comes tearing out of the kitchen, bouncing his shins off the edge of the couch to stop before dropping back down next to Zhenya.

 

The space between them feels tiny without the water bottle jammed in the cushion. Zhenya puts his good arm up along the back of the couch, behind Sid, and Sid unconsciously shifts closer while shouting shrilly at Army, who is laughing as he leaves the kitchen.

 

They settle down and turn back to the movie, though the red in Sid’s cheeks is slow to fade.  Not fifteen minutes later, though, Army looks at his watch and says something that starts with “Sid,” and Sid is maybe pouting, but also nodding. He turns to Zhenya, and says something very long, leaning forward a little and capturing Zhenya’s eyes, his tone serious and maybe a little raw. Zhenya stares back blankly. His brain is fogged over, none of the words making any impact. The movie screeches in the background of their silence with some kind of enormous slow-motion car crash.

 

Army sighs deeply, saying something to Sid, and Sid responds, clearly frustrated. Zhenya feels like he’s drifting, soft around the edges, and wants to erase the downturn of Sid’s mouth. He thinks of reaching up, clasping the back of Sid’s neck to shake him a little and reassure him that Zhenya’s right here, it’s okay, they’ll figure it out eventually. He’s glad he doesn’t when Sid’s next move is to holler “Gonch!” at the top of his lungs.

 

Seryozha appears, looking some cross between amused and irritated. Sid talks, a little agitated, as Zhenya wills Seryozha to not notice where his arm is. When Sid is finally done, Seryozha’s face looks like it does when Natalie runs to him with a scraped elbow, trying to hold back her tears. But he just says, “Sid says rest up and get better soon. Apparently he can’t wait for you to come back. I think he’s under the impression that you’re not an asshole like the rest of the team.”

 

Zhenya swallows, his throat feeling thick, before turning back to Sid, meeting his eyes briefly before the intensity of them forces Zhenya to look down at the thin strip of space between their bodies. He imagines that he can feel the heat radiating from Sid’s body, or maybe the reverse, and the foggy feeling is back. “Okay, Sid,” he says, and he’s surprised when he realizes that he means it.

 

\--

 

It’s January 11th, and coach has given them a day off after a disappointing and thankfully short road trip. The Flyers are up next, and nobody is interested in allowing them to continue the Pens’ losing streak. Zhenya wakes up well into the afternoon, exhausted by the grind and the late flight back. He staggers out into the kitchen and grunts “good morning” to Natalie and Ksenia, who are finishing up lunch. He liberates breakfast for himself as Natalie chatters at him in English, only one word out of three registering. Once he sits to eat she badgers words out of him--”how did you sleep so late?” “Tired.” “Did you have fun on the trip?” “Yes. Good time.” “Even though you lost?” Zhenya winces. “Ugh, other question,” he says--as Ksenia watches with an indulgent smile.

 

Natalie finally scampers off to get ready for a playdate. “Do you have any plans for today, Zhenya?” she asks, and he repeats the words back in his head until ‘plans’ makes sense.

 

“Movie with Max,” Zhenya finally says, chewing the last of a banana. “Harry Potter and Goblet of Fire.”

 

“Good,” Ksenia says, sounding very satisfied. “You’re finally getting used to living here, yes?”

 

Zhenya realizes with a shock that two games ago was the forty-first game of the season. He is now officially more than halfway through his first regular NHL season. At the thought, his heart beats frantically and he thinks, _home, home, it’s time to go home, let’s leave this place_ , but the moment passes, leaving the faintest bittersweet ache.

 

“Yes,” Zhenya says, and the heavy English syllable says volumes more than its meaning.

 

(He sees the movie with Max, and he learns that tri means three and that Americans--or English people, whatever--have got some weird ideas about Bulgarians and that Max cries at the end over Cedric Diggory but then punches Zhenya in the shoulder and makes him promise to not tell anyone, okay, not a soul, or else I’m spilling the beans about you going to see Brokeback Mountain all by yourself last week.)

 

\--

 

They go down in five games to the Sens. It’s April 20th, and Zhenya has a plane ticket back home. When he lands in Moscow, feeling drunk from the long flight and time change, he nearly cries at the sound of Russian and sight of Cyrillic. His heart is beating home, home, home, and he sits so he can focus on breathing in the atmosphere. Zhenya’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his pocket, sees a text from Sid. _Have a good summer, G :-)_ it says.

 

Under all his yearning for Russia being fulfilled, a different tiny whisper says, _Pittsburgh_. Zhenya thinks of the skyline coming out of the Fort Pitt tunnels, and Terrible Towels, and black and gold jerseys. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to appreciate the smells emerging from the little bakery next to where he’s sitting.

 

 _Good summer Sid))_ he texts back. _see at awards. I’m win all, none for you_.

 

 _NOT TRUE_ , his phone blares back, and Zhenya laughs to himself, standing up to see if he can find a vatrushka at the little bakery.

 

\--

 

It’s 2014, and Zhenya feels like he needs to crawl off the plane, he’s so stiff from sitting for the ungodly number of hours required to go from Moscow to Pittsburgh. He drags himself up the jetway, stuck behind a family content to piss around and take up the whole width of the corridor while they argue. Zhenya grumbles in his head in a mix of Russian and English without much vitriol and thinks about how there’s just something so satisfying about the word “jagoff.” He finally breaks free and strides down the terminal, shaking out his limbs and smiling vaguely at the gently shabby gray and maroon walls.

 

Through the central terminal hub, down the escalators--hi T-Rex, hi Franco, hi George--and to the people movers, Zhenya weaves through the crowds. The thrum of English is a comfort, reminding him of good games and good people, eight years of hockey in Pittsburgh already and hopefully eight more in his future.

 

They arrive at the landside terminal, and Zhenya’s heart speeds up. _Home, home, home_ , it says, galloping as he crosses the SECURITY CHECKPOINT - DO NOT ENTER line. It’s still half an hour at least until he claims his baggage, finds his driver, and gets into Sewickley. It’s a curious relief to see the green and white American road signs, the relatively sedate pace and flow of traffic.

 

The driver helps him with his bags so it’s only one trip from the car to the front door. Zhenya thanks him and waits in front of the door for the car to pull down the drive and for the gate to close.

 

The door opens before Zhenya can dig out his key. Sid stands there, thick from the summer and smiling so wide he’s lucky his jaw doesn’t drop off. Zhenya’s heart skips, like it always does, and settles completely as he steps into Sid’s arms.

 

“Sid,” he says throatily, at the same time that Sid breathlessly sighs “Geno.”

 

Zhenya knows how the rest of today will go. They’ll go for sushi for dinner--it’s impossible to find decent sushi in Russia, god knows he’s tried--and Sid will drag him to the grocery store. There’s not a chance that the kitchen lacks for anything, but Zhenya always likes wandering through the store, picking out little treats for himself that are uniquely American as a sort of welcome gift.

 

The real welcome gift will come later, after he’s collapsed exhausted from the time change. He’ll wake up at a truly awful hour of the morning, and Sid will be sacked out next to him, probably snoring from allergy congestion given the time of the year. Zhenya will have all the time he could want to just look, trace the lines of Sid’s face first with his eyes and then with fingers. Sid will snuffle awake, latch onto Zhenya, whine for a few more hours of sleep. They’ll curl together and Zhenya will doze until it’s light enough that he can argue that the sun is up, really Sid it is, look. They’ll wrestle about the theoretical versus the actual position of the sun, and it’ll turn into something softer, kisses interspersed with assurances of I missed you, I missed you too, I love you, I love you too.

 

Zhenya is trapped tight in Sid’s hug still, held down in the best of ways. He thinks about the next few days and about the pair of rings buried in the bottom of his carry-on, with the promise of _something permanent_ that goes along with them. He thinks of how far he’s come since the days of endless incomprehension, when he knew five words in English and four of them were hockey and one of them was “Sid.”

 

He thinks of being homesick, and realizes that having more than one home means feeling a little bit that way, all the time. Zhenya knows, down to his bones, that no matter how he’s feeling, he’d rather feel that way with Sid.

 

“What’s wrong?” Sid asks eventually, neither of them moving except for the little caresses that say _I love you_ in every swipe. “Homesick already?”

 

“No,” Zhenya says, and buries his smile in Sid’s neck. “Am home, now.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There's nothing quite like moving four thousand miles away from home to develop some serious empathy for other expats.
> 
> Title from Mumford and Son's Below my Feet, not because I'm a particular M&S fan (though they are quite delightful) but because the company car I'm borrowing here came with Babel in the CD drive and now all of it is inseparable from the feeling of making my own new normal. This was written to that whole album, through Where Are You Now? seems the most appropriate track for this fic should I pick just one.


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